


Spread out against the Sky

by A_Tardis_in_Turkey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Jonsa week, R plus L equals J, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stark family feels, starks are alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-01-21 23:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12468280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Tardis_in_Turkey/pseuds/A_Tardis_in_Turkey
Summary: Jon Snow received his soul mark when he turned 17, as every child of the North does. Three years later, it is Sansa's 17th nameday, and Jon doesn't care for the approval of anyone but the Gods, as long as his name curls upon her skin.





	1. Chapter 1

Jon shot up in his bed, panting, sweating and clutching the furs atop his legs with white knuckles.

He could feel the remnants of the nightmare clutching at the edges of his mind, keeping the panic running through his body whilst he tried to slow his breath. The details were hazy, but it was the same subject that had been tormenting him every night for three years now, just with minor variations.

Lifting the now stifling furs off his lower body, he pushed aside the ties of his small clothes to view the bold words escribed across his left hipbone.

_Sansa Stark._

The question was, did he dream of _his_ name being written upon his half sister when her mark appeared tomorrow? Or did he hope her soul mate lived so far that the mark was a shadow, a pale mark impossible to read? 

But Gods, if his nightmares were any indication, Jon knew there was one outcome that would haunt him for the rest of his life. If words appeared across Sansa's pale skin in bold striking letters like his, only to name some undeserving cunt, there was no telling what Jon would do.

* * *

Robb Stark's 17th nameday was received with great anticipation throughout the North. In the early hours of that auspicious day, Lord and Lady Stark, Maester Luwin, and Lord Robb Stark stood before the Heart Tree in the Gods wood. 

Robb cut his finger and bled over the red sap of the Heart Tree's tears.

He knelt to pray, and he remained as such for an hour.

When his Mother had begun to shoot concerned looks at her husband, and Ned Stark's brows had creased with concern, Robb Stark gasped.

And began undressing.

All three spectators where likely embarrassed by the jerks of surprise they emitted, eyes widening and mouths dropping to see the heir of Winterfell lose his cloak, then tunic, then undershirt, before scrambling and clutching at his right shoulder, peering at a spot on his back just within his view.

A distortion had appeared upon the young man's skin, and Maester Luwin came closer to squint at the faint lines.

"A soul mark in true, the heir to Winterfell has a bond mate in Westeros, that I would say for sure. But the name is pale, and I cannot read the words as yet. They will darken with age, or with a closing distance, when Lord Robb's bonded receives his name."

His face may not have changed overmuch, but the softening of his brow and eyes exuded pride, and Ned Stark clapped his son firmly on the shoulder, bare to the cold, as his Mother lovingly draped his forgotten cloak across his broad shoulders.

"Every Stark has received a bond name from the Old Gods since the time of the First Men, you had not need to be nervous, but the proof is satisfying all the same, Robb."

Robb could not but beam at his parents, for whilst his mark was light, and their name unknown, he had a bond mate. Now he had completed the ceremony, even if his bonded was in the South, where they had forgotten the rituals of soul marks, his name would appear upon their body as soon as they passed 17 name days. 

Then, all he would have to do is wait, and they may come to him, or he would find them.

After all, in the North, there was nothing held as important as finding your bonded mate, and nothing as insulting to the Gods as ignoring their choice.

* * *

Ned Stark had received his soul mark at 17, the name of his Brother's betrothed drifting along the strong line of his jaw. Brandon, whose soul mark appeared in stark white when the ritual was completed, signifying his bonded had passed before they could meet, was all too happy to step down from the position of heir, and instead become his sister's sworn shield.

Cat shared his mark, his name appearing on her skin, curling down a finger on her 17th nameday, to the relief of both their families- and both of them, so in love as they were.

But not all were so lucky.

Lyanna Stark travelled south with her brother and shield, Brandon, to darken the lines that swirled across her forehead like a crown. 

She travelled to Dorne, thinking she may find her bond mate in the other kingdom to still hold the Bond and the Mark in reverence.

She sent her brother to Kings Landing to enquire of any who may have her name upon them, but it was there that tragedy struck.

Mad King Aerys killed her brother, and attempted to outlaw the soul mark ritual, prohibiting their use. Rickard Stark, Warden of the North came south to demand justice and the right of his people to find their bond mates, as had been done for 8000 years. He too was burnt by the king.

Unknowing of her family's fate in King's Landing, Lyanna Stark found Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, her name shifting down his left thigh, and they bonded, as only marked and matched mates can. They separated as Rhaegar left to attend to reports of his Father's growing madness, and Lyanna remained in Dorne; safe with his kingsguard.

But uncommonly, there was another with Lyanna Stark's name curling across his knuckles, and Robert Baratheon, in his rage and refusal to believe that it was not him sitting across the brow of Lyanna, was only too happy to go to war with Rhaegar for Aerys' crimes.

And so, Rhaegar died, Aerys died, Viserys and Daenerys escaped, and Lyanna Stark, bond mate of Rhaegar Targaryen, sister to Ned Stark, and princess of the North, passed away on the birthing bed.

Ned Stark watched his nephew, heir to the Iron Throne, walk alone into the Godswood on his 17th nameday, four months before his eldest son's, and return alone an hour later, his face pale under his burgeoning beard, and his brows furrowed so deeply they shadowed his eyes.

"Jon? How do you fare? Is the mark faint, there is no shame in a mark that cannot be made out... Jon-"

"My mark... it is... it is impossible. I will not have my bonded. I cannot."

Ned looked down at his nephew, his son in all but true blood, momentarily perplexed.

Realisation hit in an instant.

"Oh, Jon. I am sorry, a white mark is a sad occasion... I am sorry... But it is possible... it is possible to find happiness without the mark and-"

"It's fine, Father. It is fine. Don't worry about me. My mark would never have happened anyway... it's just impossible."

But Ned still pulled the boy into his chest. Whilst he had broadened out in the past few years, filling gangly limbs with strength and muscle, gaining inches on Ned everyday, Ned could still comfort his nephew, and as he felt Jon's shoulders stiffen before relaxing, letting himself fall into Ned's embrace, he knew he had made the right choice.

* * *

Jon had refused to believe it at first. Cursed the mark in every direction, with every word and descriptor he had picked up from Mikken, his Father and the men of arms over the years.

The only thing he was glad for was its location, sitting deep within the vee of his left hip, there was no reason for another to see the dark letters slashing across his skin, so different to the birthmark like appearance of Robb's mark.

He was glad of his Father's original assumption- that his was a white mark, one of death- for word had spread and since become common knowledge. It prevented questions if nothing else, though the looks of pity and condescension had gotten old fast.

But the main effect of the mark was distraction.

For whilst Jon and Sansa had sat on each other's periphery their whole lives, they had never truly been siblings, and that only led to trouble, because Jon became distracted by Sansa.

Jon found himself contemplating how Sansa could possibly be his soul mate, which meant contemplating Sansa, which meant contemplating how she truly was growing more beautiful by the year, and gods when she turned 16 how her body filled, and as her smiles became warmer as she outgrew childish tendencies, and Gods just how fucking  _radiant_ she was-

Fuck. He was doing it again.

Jon's noticing of Sansa had quickly morphed into something different. Something much deeper, and warmer and enclosing. Whenever he saw Sansa nowadays, Jon felt as though he had been dunked into the hot springs. Hot and bothered and his skin shivered over his bones as he fought the warmth flooding his systems and rushing where it shouldn't.

But it was wrong. All of it.

The Gods did not approve incestuous marks. That was well known. The loss of reverence for soul marks and bonds started when the Targaryens came to power, their incestuous relationships never being sanctified by a soul mark, they scorned the marks as rituals for the uncivilised and uncouth. Only Dorne and the North held enough respect for the bond that they continued to hold tightly to their beliefs.

It was known. It could not be. He was wrong.

Jon knew that in the morning, Sansa's mark would appear and it would say the name of some unknowing idiot that would never realise that they were taking from Jon everything he could ever want.

Because Gods, how he wanted Sansa. How he wanted his name to be painted across her skin, because no matter how wrong it would be, the Gods would be showing their approval, and no one could argue against the choice of the Gods. 

Jon just wanted Sansa, he wanted her to be his as he was hers, even though she didn't know it.

* * *

Sansa knelt at the Heart Tree, praying fervently, desperately, hoping that soon, so soon, her mark would appear, would show her who her real bond mate was and stop these... sinful thoughts and feelings she had felt growing, spreading, invading throughout the past year.

She just needed her mark to appear, she needed a name. One other than the one that appeared so often in her dreams.

Just as she bent her head to begin her prayer anew, her throat burnt, searing her skin with a strike of cold heat, passing through her body to her fingers, lingering with tingles at the tips of her body.

Her Mother and Father rushed over upon seeing her hold her throat, an unusual place for a soul mark to appear, gently soothing her ragged breathes.

Feeling along her neck, she felt the ridges and dips of the name, the print standing out upon her skin, indicating dark letters - her bond mate was in the North!

It was only upon turning to look at her parents, however, that alerted her to their silence.

They wore twin looks of horror, whilst Maester Luwin, whilst also obviously worried, looked mostly confused.

He opened his mouth, closed it, frowned, and opened it again to speak.

"But... who is Aemon Targaryen?"

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Ao3 deleted the first version I wrote, but maybe that's for the best, for I much prefer this one. I hope you enjoy and find this a bit intriguing. Thank you for reading, commenting and kudosing! Everything little bit of feedback means so much!

"We are to go to the Wall?"

"Yes, Robb. Your sister, yourself and I will be departing in a sennight for Castle Black where we will be the guests of the Knight's Watch as I discuss... important issues with the Lord Commander."

Robb stared at his Lord Father in disbelief and no little amount of confusion. What possibly could have prompted such a journey and with-

"But Sansa? At the Wall? Father that seems... rather, well, unnecessary. By the Gods, what reason could she possibly have for leaving Winterfell to travel with us?"

"I have my reasons, Robb. If I do not share them with you then you shall trust my judgment, as you should."

Robb knew his Father was no simple man, but to announce such an endeavour, one so utterly unexpected, and not explain himself, not at all? That was not Ned Stark. Something had happened, and recently. But the only thing to have changed was... wait, the wall-

"Father! You are not hiding Sansa are you? I know that she has the name of a Targaryen on her, but surely, the king loves you, he would not demand Sansa for such a thing, she cannot help her soul-"

"You will be silent. Now." Ned growled out the words, stalking over to Robb to clasp a solid hand on his shoulder and quickly shake him.

"Do not shout to the world what might endanger your sister, you are smarter than that, Robb."

Robb knew he should be ashamed in the face of his Father's rare anger, but he could only fear for the sister he held so close.

"Father please, tell me, Sansa, she shall be alright? You would not hide her?" Robb knew that the name that curled upon Sansa's throat, and snaked up along her chin to kiss at her lips that evening, was the name of exiles, but he also knew that names had power. And Targaryen was certainly a powerful name.

"She is my daughter Robb. As you are my firstborn son, she is my firstborn daughter, the image of your mother, and the gentlest, most dutiful Lady of the North. I love her as I love all my children, and I would never do such a thing. I cannot say why she must come, but Sansa will return with us, this I promise."

Robb could only hope that his Father knew what he was doing.

 

* * *

 

Ned rubbed the lines between his brows, trying to remember when they became so deeply entrenched upon his skin.

"Aemon Targaryen? Aemon Targaryen! How could this happen Ned, how?!"

"Catelyn, you must calm yourself, this is a... difficult result, and certainly... unexpected-"

"Unexpected. Unexpected? Of course this is unexpected, our daughter has the name of a family exiled and destroyed upon her neck and face, apparently it has even moved to her lips!"

"Cat, you must- wait, her lips? How is that possible? The marks only move..."

"Yes! When her soul mate has her name across them as well! It is impossible!"

Ned decided that he would examine that piece of information at a later point, but first he pushed out of his chair and strode over to his frantic wife.

_His Wife._

Ned cupped Cat's face in his hands, not needing to worry about her disliking the callouses that spread across his palms, knowing she was fond of the show of her husband's strength.

Sometimes he still wondered why the Gods were so good to him, giving him such a woman, having her love him as a man before they even knew if they were matched.

"Cat, all shall be well, we have kept it quiet, and I will buy us sometime to plan what we shall do. I will travel with Robb and Sansa to the Wall, and only when we return will we send any ravens."

"The Wall? But why... wait, you do not think? The Maester? It is impossible, he is too, well he is too old! Sansa cannot-"

"Hush, my love. I will merely gather information, there shall be no matches, no marking, nothing to worry over. Our daughter shall be fine."

Ned rested his forehead against his wife's. Looking into the eyes that so many of his children had inherited, and how he loved them- her beautiful eyes.

His wonderful wife, so strong and so brave, but she was so scared, for her daughter, for her family.

Ned knew he should reveal the truth, should tell her now and relieve some of her worry, though not all.

But it was late, and he loved his wife, and angling her up and his head down so their lips met, he knew he wanted to love her tonight, as he wished to every night.

He needed to have her, to glory in her, before- before he changed it all. Changed everything.

 

* * *

 

Jon slammed his chamber door behind him, leaning back upon the thick wall, panting like the Stark sigil.

He knew,  _he knew_ , that soul marks could move, could travel, when your Bonded shared your name and were close by.

Objectively, he had known such a thing his whole life, it was common knowledge. He had even seen it at times between the Lord and Lady Stark. He had seen Catelyn Stark's mark once, when she was returning to her husband's chambers in the night, and Jon was returning from the Godswood, wrapped around her wrist instead of her finger, bigger and bolder than usual and curling possessively twice around the delicate appendage.

Jon had blushed very hard and hastened back to his chambers.

However. None of that, none, had compared to seeing Sansa's soul mark dance upon her lips.  _Her lips!_

Soul marks were intimate things, people who had soul marks in obvious places were rare, though House Stark was known for a disproportionate amount of marks unable to be hidden. It was chalked up to their honest and upfront personalities, and became simply another sign of the honour and dignity of the Starks.

It was widely whispered under sheets and around corners by men and women that when bonded pairs wished to lie with each other, the marks often moved to signify their amorous thoughts. Such a spectacle was seen as deeply private and usually remained so, as most marks laid beneath the heavy furs of the North.

But Sansa, Gods Sansa.

Even though it was not his name that lay spread across her delicate skin, that had, during supper, suddenly moved to the soft lips that Jon had been staring at with a painful longing, he had been hard in an instant. All he could see in his mind was his name,  _Jon Snow_ , snug against her lips as they spread taught around his cock. Sansa had not even noticed until she had felt the stares of half the men in the great hall upon her.

Jon could barely stop himself from stealing her then and there, keeping her from the lusting gazes of his Father's men. He knew he had eyed them with a dangerous level of hated besides, and would have to keep himself under better regulation in the future. But he could not bare it. These idiots, all those disrespectful cunts staring at sweet, sweet Sansa with such lewd eyes, certainly imagining the same scene he himself had concocted.

Rubbing the heels of his hands roughly into his eyes, Jon strode over to his bed, collapsing face down on the mattress.

_Aemon Targaryen._

He hated him. He fucking loathed him. Gods knew he wanted to kill him. But Jon knew that he held favour for Aemon Targaryen for one reason. He would never be Sansa's bonded. It was impossible, no Aemon Targaryen lived, or at least did not live openly. Even if he was to find Sansa, Ned would never allow the match given the death sentence that it would incur from the capital. No. Sansa would be safe from such a name.

And Jon hated himself for glorying in this fact.

As much as he wished always and deeply for Sansa to be happy, which she surely would be with her bond mate, Jon knew, _he knew,_ that he could make her happier, he could make her so, so happy.

And even if the Gods would not give him their approval, and he would be sinning in every way known, Jon could only be glad that there was no cunt standing ready to claim Sansa, and he might have a chance to prove himself worthy.

He hated himself for being glad, for being happy, that if Sansa could not be his - and Gods how that still burned in his stomach, still twisted everything in him into a raging coil- at least she would not be any others.

Rolling back to his front, Jon sat up upon his furs, deciding to tend to himself so he would not embarrass himself if anyone was to come to him later in the evening.

Gods he was still so hard, still aching at the thought of what could have been if Sansa's lips had been flirting with his name instead.

He stood, undressing quickly. Tunic, belt, boots, trousers, smallclothes and ohhhh, yes, a hand circling around his base, tight, tight, tighter.

Jon fell back to onto the bed, his eyes closed and his hand working himself over at a slow pace. Gods he knew it was nothing to what it would be to touch Sansa, to be touched. But still, ugh, gods, it felt good.

Felt, almost, too good. Huh. Something was different. 

Jon leaned forward suddenly, opening his eyes and loosening his hand around his cock.

Eyes wide and jaw dropped, Jon let out a sound of complete bewilderment, mixed with the most painful arousal he had ever experienced.

There, twisting and twining along the length of his prick was the name Sansa Stark, gone from his hip and laying claim to the most sensitive part of him.

His hips bucked involuntarily and without further touching, Jon came so hard his vision sparked at the corners for the next hour.

Gods, her name, her mark, claiming that part of him. The sensitivity of the mark only adding to the intensity of the touch, of the thought.

Splayed out upon the bed, reeling from the intensity of such a moment, it took a moment for Jon to remember.

Jerking up on the bed he frowned.

_How did my mark move?_

 

* * *

 

Sansa blushed furiously all the way to her chambers after rushing from the Great Hall. She had left behind the gazes of the men, alerted to them by the fury in her half-brother's eyes as he gazed around at them.

She had been too caught up with contemplating whether Jon would change his address of her, if he would pull away, return them to how they were years back when she was still young and ignorant and he a brooding mass.

She had caught his eyes across the supper table, seen that familiar intensity that brought heat to her belly and an ache to fingertips, urging her to touch and touch and taste.

But where she had looked across into his eyes, he had been focussed somewhat lower. She had been confused at first, wondering if she could take this as a true indication that he was affected as she was, that he truly did feel a similar burn coursing through him as he looked upon her.

Then she had remembered, of course, what else would he be looking at, after all, it is not everyday that one receives a soul mark, let alone one that  _should_ be impossible.

She had reached a hand to clasp at the high neck of her gown, rubbing bitter circles over the name etched into her skin. Of course she had hoped somewhere, secret and dark and deep, that a certain name would appear upon her, would ordain their match and name her wishes pure. If not that, she had hoped for a man that was good and kind and that could be sent for at once, to love her and for her to love, and to distract her from the wishes and thoughts that plagued her every time she saw the wide shoulders and black curls of Jon Snow.

It was only when she saw that his gaze was higher than her neck and hand, that he had not reacted to her movement that she realised that he must have been gazing at something else, perhaps, her lips?

Gods, she was a disgrace, just the thought of him wanting her lips brought a heat that burned along her limbs, had her rubbing her thighs together.

Attempting to quell the fluttering in her stomach and the dreadful urge to grin at the discovery of Jon's preoccupation, she had turned to Robb at her side to murmur something inconsequential about the meal.

It was then she realised something was wrong. Robb too was staring now at her lips in abject fascination, brows furrowing and a hot blush spreading down his ears.

In shock she raised a hand to her mouth to feel, perhaps there was some pork upon her chin, maybe some gravy on her cheek. 

But no, she felt the sensitive letters of the mark, shivered at her own touch, feeling the end of the name dipping into her mouth, the beginning flirting with her cupid's bow.

Her mark had moved. And to such a place. It was equivalent to her bonded standing next to her with his desire on full display.

She looked back at Jon, but he was staring at her no more, now he was looking around with incandescent eyes at the men in the hall. Glancing around, she noticed the gazes of many of the unbonded men upon her, staring unashamedly at words curling around her mouth. Luckily upon the dias she was too far away for the letters to be read in such a size, but it did not prevent them from noticing that she had a mark that was certainly letting it's feelings known.

Shooting up from her seat, Sansa had fled flushing from the great hall to arrive now in her chambers after slamming the door behind her.

Sliding down the rough wood of her door, crumpling on the floor of her solar, Sansa buried her face in her hands.

Gods, how humiliating. To think that she had thought Jon's stare upon her lips meant that he may have had the same sinful urges as her, that he too may wish the Gods had painted the name of another upon her skin.

To think that she was loving and lusting after her brother the day she discovered her soul mark, that even the words of the gods were not enough to cure her of her disgraceful wants. 

Sansa disgusted herself.

She was furious at herself.

But mostly, she was just terribly, terribly, sad.

 

* * *

 

Catelyn Stark was an astute woman.

She knew more than her husband, her children, and her keep thought she did.

And she knew that Jon Snow was not her husband's son.

She thought perhaps Brandon's issue, he seemed the most likely. But it could even be Benjen's, perhaps even Rickard Stark's. It was always possible.

But no, not her Ned's.

It hurt, Gods it hurt, that he tried to sell such a story to her. That he had looked her in the eye and claimed another's as his.

They had loved each other so long though, and so deeply, that Cat knew from the moment he said it that he did not tell the truth, but that the child had to be of someone he had loved very dearly.

So she had cared for the child. Not as her own, not as maybe she should have. Because even knowing he was not Ned's did not dispel the pain he brought as evidence of the lie her bond mate had told her. But she had cared for him. He nursed at her breast, she tended him while ill, and she dispelled him of the fears that nightmares raged upon young minds.

She was fond of him, her likely nephew, that she could say. She was fond of him.

And so she had watched over him over the years. Watched him grow alongside Robb and then Sansa, had seen the distance grow between them, unable to connect as the other children were, and Sansa so confused over what her Mother's reaction could be.

But she also had seen what had grown across the past four years, as they matured and Sansa realised that her Mother would not say anything against her spending time with Jon. Perhaps she could have encouraged such a realisation, could have told Sansa that she did not hate Jon Snow, that there was pain but she did not resent the boy that looked so like her husband.

Selfishly, she had enjoyed such an indication of her daughter's loyalty, had found it heart rending in it's sweetness and naïve loveliness.

But when her daughter came to her after Jon's 16th nameday and asked if she could give her half-brother a nameday gift, she had told Sansa that there was fondness between her and Jon, that he was not her child but that did not mean that Sansa could not love him full heartedly and that she did not need to worry about her Mother, for she would be fine.

She had not expected the fondness that grew between them. Had not expected quite such a bond to form. They seemed unable at times to pull away from each other. If they were close, she could see them struggle to move apart, confused by their own need to remain together.

Catelyn Stark had dismissed the signs. The ones she knew only she had seen. Until four moons after his 18th nameday, Jon Snow grew ill. Very ill.

During the high Winter, Rickon had run off. Gallivanting into the Wolfswood and not returning even when it went dark.

The entire keep was sent out to search for the youngest Stark. But it was Jon Snow who found the little rascal, and Jon Snow who wrapped him in his cloak and kept him warm until the morning, when he returned to Winterfell in nothing but his surcoat, tunic and in a high fever.

Catelyn had been so grateful she knew then that the fondness that had grown through the years had definitely become love, and that this boy, nephew or not, was hers. And so, she cared for him.

Sending away the maids, she herself had stripped him down to wash his body, had gotten prepared to cool his fevered skin with the strength of her arm and cloth of her fingers.

And so, Catelyn Stark became the only person to know Jon Snow's secret.

She alone knew of the mark that curled upon his hip, spelling out the name of her daughter. 

_Sansa Stark._

 

* * *

 

Robb paced up and down his solar, repeating his conversation with his Father over and over in his mind.

There were many parts of said words that concerned him. But one part in particular stood out. Something his Father had never called him before.

_"As you are my firstborn son, she is my firstborn daughter..."_

Firstborn? That was Jon. Never had his Father called him such.

But Robb knew, he knew his Father's eyes had not lied to him.

So then... the question was... what was Jon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise there’ll be some proper jonsa interaction next chapter ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Hope you like the chapter, maybe not my best, because it all came out in a rush, but I wanted to get something out there, and I hope some people enjoy it at least! Please comment if you can, really love to hear feed back, it's so great to hear what people think about the story and where they want it to go!

Lord Commander Mormont was not confused very often. 

It was a rather unusual occurrence, and one that he did not particularly appreciate.

Stranger still, was the source of his confusion.

"Stark. Do you posses any deeper understanding of your brother's raven? Anything that could possibly incite a visit from Lord Stark?"

Benjen Stark curled his fingers under his chin, resting an elbow upon the dark wood of the Lord Commander's table.

"I am not sure. There is... nothing of real note that I can remember occurring at this point in time. No planned events to be sure."

"Then what in the Gods' names is he doing coming to Castle Black? And bringing his two eldest!"

"What? Jon and Robb are to come as well? Both of them? That is most-"

"No, no, not the Snow. Lord Robb is to come, but so is his daughter, the Lady Sansa, which really- I find quite strange, the Wall is a place for men, not women, no matter if she be a Stark or-"

At first stupefied and silent, at this, Benjen Stark surged to his feet.

Jeor was unsure what to make of the complete shock upon his First Ranger's face. Of course it was strange, but Benjen looked as though the Gods had visited upon him.

"Wait, what- no, who? Wait. Sansa?"

"Yes, Stark. That is what I said, and what Lord Stark has written, now-"

"Sansa cannot come to the Wall! It is impossible! It will simply cause chaos!"

"I am sure one Lady cannot cause that much trouble, she cannot be so difficult as to inspire that much turmoil. I would think you would have more faith in your own niece-"

Benjen cut a hand through his words and shook his head with a deeply etched crease between his brows.

"It has nothing to do with behaviour, my Lord. And everything to do with your comment previously. Sansa Stark is a lady of the highest calibre, that I could tell even on her 16th nameday. But she is also one of the greatest beauties that Westeros shall see, and I worry for the honour of our men if they were to see her, unbonded as she is."

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's brows mimicked those of his brother of the Night's Watch.

"Unbonded? You are sure?"

"Sansa's nameday passed a sennight ago. If she had received a mark that named a bonded, we would know that name at this moment."

"It is possible that her mark is as Lord Robbs. Unable to be but faintly seen."

"But Sansa is of an age to be married, there would be no need for her to wait in Winterfell and have her intended find her by chance. If she was the same as Robb, ravens would be sent out, to enquire across Westeros; she would likely travel with some family to Dorne, as- as Lyanna did. Or to the capital. She would travel- she would travel... somewhere..."

Benjen Stark and Jeor Mormont stared in shared astonishment at each other. Undoubtedly, they had come to the same realisation.

A voice creaked out from the chair sitting on the left side of the solar.

"So. Sansa Stark seeks her bonded at the Wall. But who is it she seeks?"

Ranger and Lord turned to look at the milky white eyes of the Maester of Castle Black.

If Aemon Targaryen was correct, Sansa's beauty was the least amount of chaos she would be bringing to Castle Black.

 

* * *

 

 

Arya was good at keeping secrets. She kept her sword, Needle, a secret (well until her Father found it, but he had kept the secret of her using it too, so it definitely counted), she kept her and Sansa's late night visits to the kitchen a secret, and she kept Bran's secret that he was scared of the dark.

She knew she could keep this secret too. 

"You're in love. Aren't you?"

Sansa shrieked; the bowl of lavender water she had been holding flying to land in a puddle behind her.

"Arya Stark! Don't scare me like that!"

Arya couldn't help let out some giggles at seeing her usually put together sister so flustered, but trailed off as she noticed the tracks coating her sister's cheeks.

"You've been crying again, haven't you? It's about the one you're in love with. The one that's not your bonded," Arya scampered up closer to give her sister a fleeting hug before crossing her arms and staring resolutely into watery eyes, "I know I'm right."

"Oh Arya, I just got something in my eye is all. I have no song of unrequited love and sorrow trailing me, you would do well not to say such things."

But she did not look her in the eye, and a hand clutched at the high neck of her gown.

"It's okay," Sansa looked her in the eye quickly with that, "I won't tell anyone. I'll look after it for you."

Sansa's eyes softened, and Arya let her pull her into a hug that lasted much longer than the one she had bestowed herself. Arya couldn't help but be glad in that moment that they had grown closer these past two years, both sisters simmering down in their antagonism.

She closed her eyes and burrowed into Sansa's soft, tall form. She always gave such perfect hugs.

Arya sighed in momentary contentment. She meant what she said.

After all, she really was very good at keeping secrets.

 

* * *

 

Jon bared his teeth and slammed the solar door behind him.

He couldn't help it. He knew he needed to calm down. He needed to think clearly. It was understandable really. It wasn't her fault.

But he was still just so furious.

And so, so lonely.

Taking determined steps across the room, he had Sansa within arms reach in seconds.

A sennight- well, nearly a sennight- and Sansa had not talked to him once, had fled every time he approached. Would not make eye contact, would not respond and refused (refused!) to open her door to him.

Jon knew that he should most likely just be scared that she had discovered his secret, that she knew of his unholy mark and sinful desires and love. Knew that in such a case he should be glad for the distance and her silence.

But he was more concerned with how his skin crawled over his bones, the deep seated unease that stewed in his stomach since he realised she was avoiding him. And the physical ache that permeated his nerves from not seeing, not being, with her in so long.

He hadn't been able to touch her, to hear her, to listen to her sweet voice. And he hadn't been able to care for her. For the whole of Winterfell knew that something was upsetting Lady Sansa Stark. Tear tracks appeared at least once a day. Lemon cakes no longer drove away the deep melancholy that had befallen her. 

And Jon hadn't been able to do anything. Anything at all.

But that ended now. Sansa was to leave in the morning, with Lord Stark and Robb - gone for Gods know how long. To do Gods know what.

Jon would not go another day and night without talking to Sansa, helping her if he could - however he could.

He needed to help her, for his own sanity if not for his love for her. Everyday he saw her sadness he felt his grip on reason falter a little more.

Perhaps if he could bring her to love him, could tell her of his love, mayhaps her mark could change. After all, such a thing was possible, it had happened for the King, and he was not even of the North.

Such thoughts were dangerous, he knew. Would only end in his death most likely. But he yearned to tell her, to look after her, as was his right and duty as a soul bonded, a marked mate, a man. A man who loved her.

Jon tried to steady his breathing. Thoughts of his pain, her sadness and the name of his love etched upon his skin rushed through his head faster than he could separate them.

It was no use. Now standing so close to her, breathing in the lavender and lemon that clung to her skin, seeing her vibrant eyes and trembling wrists, he could only suck in air all the more harshly.

Gods, but she was beautiful. Sweet, sweet, Sansa.

"Sansa."

"J-j-Jon."

Barely suppressing a groan just at hearing his name on her lips, one of his hands rose to quiver in the air, increments from her cheek.

"Sansa, please," his hand gave up its battle, moving to cup her cheek and slide into her hair, rejoicing when she leaned into it, "Sweetling, let me help. Talk to me. I beg of you."

Jon had meant to be stern, to hide at least behind his rights as an older brother, and demand the truth of her pain.

One word in and he could do nothing but beg. Nothing but speak in pleas.

He heard her suck in a haggard breath, felt her tremble quicker under his hand, and let himself go.

Sweeping her up, striding from the entranceway into her bed chamber, and sitting upon the bed with her cradled upon his lap, Jon let himself cater to his deepest need. To see Sansa cared for; to see her looked after.

Trembling became tremors; tremors became shudders, and eventually racking sobs shook her whole form.

"Oh sweet Sansa, my darling. Tell me how I shall help. Whatever you need, I shall do it. Be it wine from the cellars, or the hands removed from an impudent Umber, I shall see it done."

At his words a giggle forced past gasping lips, and Jon jumped upon the sign that he was not completely failing at his task.

Once again cupping her cheeks, he brought her face to his, touching the very tips of their noses together, hers warm from her tears and sniffles, in a gesture they had done a hundred times.

"Sansa, I know you think I jest, but truly, you must know that I would do whatever I could to make you happy again, to see you smile."

A fragile smile slowly tempered still trembling lips; the most beautiful thing Jon had seen in days.

Pressing their foreheads together, Jon smiled back gently at her, "There, now that wasn't so hard was it?"

Sansa chuckled again briefly, this time a huskier, womanly sound that Jon couldn't help but be affected by.

"Oh Jon. Of course I know you would always try to protect me, even if it was from my own sorrow. But I think that in this case, it is something I must face on my own."

At such words, Jon felt a growl rumbling at the back of his throat. 

"Tell me of it Sansa, and I will prove to you that I can help, that I can care for you," fearing too much said, Jon couldn't help but tack on, "or find someone, someone who can."

He regretted it instantly. For it was not the truth, he wouldn't find anyone else to do what he could.

"I thank you, Jon. But I cannot ask you to go against the Gods themselves. We cannot change what the Gods decree."

In her eyes, in that moment, Jon saw all the pain he felt every day, knowing the one he loved was not his, knowing she belonged to someone else. He saw it mirrored there, in Sansa's eyes. And he knew, suddenly, he knew that she felt something too. Not love, not a love like his, he would not be so lucky. But something, Gods, there was something there.

He was sure.

And so, he decided to tell the truth, the whole truth. Just this once.

Somehow leaning even closer, feeling her fingers clutching at the shoulder and chest of his tunic, sliding a hand down to press her ever closer into him, Jon told Sansa what he'd been yearning to for years.

"I would fight the Gods to my death, to theirs, if they would keep us apart. And I would do the Gods bidding, no matter the deed, if they would let us be together. The Gods, people, fate, I care for none of that, if I was blessed with you."

And breaching the last sliver of air between them, he brushed his lips over hers as though they were glass and he brought with him the power to break them.

Then he left.

 

* * *

 

 

Rickon stood in the doorway to Sansa's chambers, a little confused. 

He had tried to go to Sansa's room, she always gave him a hug and a cuddle after he had a nightmare and came to check up on her. Because he wasn't scared of his nightmares, oh no, he just wanted to make sure Sansa hadn't had any as well.

Sansa always thanked him and told him how brave he was, Rickon puffed his chest out a little at the memory. He really was very brave.

But anyway, he thought he had gone to Sansa's room. But wasn't that Mother and Father kissing on the bed?

He took a step in and ah, Rickon understood now, it was just Jon and Sansa.

Maybe he was checking her for nightmares tonight! Jon was a good brother, he checked on Rickon sometimes too! And there was that time in the Wolfswood, he hadn't been scared, but he was a bit glad when Jon found him in the end.

Well, he'd been told it was bad to interrupt Mother and Father when they were kissing, so he guessed it was the same for Sansa and Jon.

Tonight he'd find Mother and check on her, he'd tell her what a good brother Jon was being, looking after Sansa.

And he'd tell her how good he'd been, not interrupting their kissing.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies, so sorry to leave you all waiting for so long on this one, I hope this starts to make up for it though! I've done a couple of edits on the chapter before this one so if you're able to, might be best to read that one first before diving into this new chapter if you please. <3
> 
> Also, I'm going to try something new, and just stick to two povs per chapter from now on, unless a plot point requires more. So if you have any povs you would like to see in the next chapter, just leave a comment on what they are and I'll try do the most popular ones. :)

"Rickon, you were very good, coming to tell me of what you did and saw. I shall tell Sansa how brave you were. Now back off to bed with you and no more roaming the corridors!"

The words followed a scampering young Stark down the dimly lit corridor of Winterfell, towards the quarters he shared with Bran. But Ned had stopped thinking about his youngest's late night wanderings as soon as the last word left his mouth. Before that even - as soon as the damning words left the child's mouth.

_'Out of the mouths of babes, indeed',_ he thought.

They rung through his head, following him as he strode down towards his bed chamber. 

_"... but Sansa was busy kissing Jon, so I came to look for Mother..."_

It made sense. In a strange, confusing way, it made sense. It pulled together so many small, momentary actions and oddities.

His poor, sweet daughter. What had he done to her?

Of course, of course, she would feel the pull to the one whose name was written on her. Of course she would weep at first to think she was some type of degenerate, to think herself capable of such sin. It explained why she had been so melancholy this past week. She must think herself wretched indeed. Pulled to the one she thought was her half brother, confused by the name not matching her pull, unknowing that her love was pure in truth.

And knowing the whole time that Jon must not hold her name. For he himself had found out from Jon on his ritual day that Jon's mark was white. Delicately, he had mentioned to his children not to ask their half-brother about his mark. Only saying that, like their Uncle Brandon, sometimes people were not meant to meet their fated one.

But his dear Sansa had given in, it would seem, to the words lacing around her neck.

And in doing so had given herself away to a boy,  _a man,_ who thought himself her brother, who would not possibly understand the pull Sansa must feel, the desperation.

Gods, what would Jon do? What would he think?

Ned walked in a haze back towards his chamber, it was late, and he had been tired even when he had come across Rickon on his way to join his wife. Now, he felt as though the floor was trying to pull him down into the foundations of Winterfell, each step a fight to drag himself up and away from the welcoming stone.

But his mind was in a whirl, spinning with the news he now carried, beckoning him back towards the rooms of his children, calling him to intervene.

Jon's true name, his regnal name, was written upon his daughter's skin. It was true. He had thought it possible, but had not been sure - after all there was another Aemon Targaryen living at the wall. But that seemed unlikely, such age differences were mostly unheard of in fated matches, and when they did occur, which was rarely, were seen as simply tragic and pitiful. 

Cousins in truth, if the world was different, if history had been different, the mark would have been nothing to hide.

Except that Jon's mark was white, and he did not match with Ned's daughter. An awkward situation even in a different world, to have an unmatched pair. Gods knew, others had gone to war over such before. 

But Ned's lies had placed them in the most awkward situation possible. A daughter that thought herself incestuous, and a betrayer of the mark upon her skin. And a nephew that thought himself put upon by an incestuous sister.

Gods. What had he done?

What could he possibly do?

Tell the truth of Jon's parentage? Release his daughter from thinking herself sinful, only to have her know for sure that her bonded does not have her name?

Send Sansa away? Betroth her to a northern house that would not dare to betray her marked name when they have the honour of ties to House Stark? 

Send Jon away? To the night's watch or some house to squire or be fostered? 

No. This was his fault, his doing. 

He had to calm down, he had to think. 

He had to go to the Godswood.

Swiftly he spun, turning on the spot. With at least a destination in mind, if nothing else, his steps towards the Godswood were lighter.

 

* * *

 

 

He had run, had sprinted, had fled.

Unbelieving of his actions, he had retreated to the Godswood, sure that there he would face either silent space to panic, or godly retribution.

The gods that had placed such a name on him, that had cursed or blessed him with this heat, this pulse, this pull. Those same gods could see fit to strike him down upon his entrance. Although he would never understand their actions, he knew that he, and only he, had chosen to act on it. Had chosen to kiss his sister - _half-sister -_ and stain her with his actions.

He had done that. And he had run away.

Sinking into the dirt of the Godswood, he leant back against the heart tree, head tipped towards the canopy of red leaves and stars. _Red like Sansa's hair-_

He didn't regret it. That the was the thing. He didn't regret it at all. The press of their lips, the faint taste of lemon. He had lived for that moment, and he would never regret it.

But when he had pulled away, there it was,  _Aemon Targaryen_ sitting dark and clear across her lips, sitting where his had just brushed and it was too much.

Too much.

She left tomorrow and instead of helping her, instead of truly finding out why she had been so melancholy, all he had done was steal a laugh, a smile and a kiss. Stolen from the women he loved, who could never love him back.

"Jon?"

He leapt to his feet, backing into the carved face behind him. Father. Perhaps the Gods were visiting retribution on him indeed.

Ned didn't say anything else, only stared with tired and glazed eyes at him, mouth pressed thin.

Jon made himself settle, melted the ice straightening his spine, breathed out the pressure pushing on his lungs.

He made himself greet his father. But he couldn't call him that, not after what he'd done.

"Sorry Lord Stark, I was just... finding some solitude."

He forced a rueful grin upon his face and made to head back to the keep. It is was strange, as he spoke, it almost seemed as though his father was... fearful? Scared? 

Ned had grimaced at Jon's words, finding more meaning in them than Jon meant there to be. But he strode off nonetheless, anxious to be away from his father, the man he had just betrayed.

"Wait, Jon. Listen."

His father's voice was forced, filled with the gravel of words spoken against one's will.

Jon didn't turn back. He couldn't. Even though, surely, it would be something meaningless - a comment on his sparring, a request for the next day-

"You must understand, Sansa- she is not in control of herself at the moment."

Jon jerked, he couldn't help it, he didn't understand, but there was only one thing his father could be speaking of.

"Jon, you must forgive her, she can't help it, the mark- it has a mind of it's own it-"

He turned, finally. Jon didn't comprehend what his father was saying but he knew it was wrong- something wasn't making sense-

Ned was staring at him, face frozen as though he had slipped through the winter ice, paused in time forever by the merciless cold of a frozen lake.

Jon looked back at the face of his father, their identical expressions of confusion mirrored across the black spring.

What was his father saying? That Sansa's mark was causing her strange melancholy behaviour? That was understandable, she had a mark that had no recipient. But no, that made no sense, that wasn't what he meant. 

Why would Jon ever need to forgive Sansa for something? For being melancholy?

Jon frowned. Whatever was going on, his father didn't know he had kissed Sansa, for the words between them would be very different if he did.

Finally, the Lord of Winterfell spoke.

"...it moved. At dinner- Catelyn, Catelyn said- it moved."

"What moved? Father?"

"Sansa's mark," Ned was moving now, stalking around the edge of the spring towards him, faster and faster, "it moved during dinner. To her lips."

"Indeed, it did yes," unsure why, Jon started retreating towards the keep, backing away from his approaching Father, "I saw it, as did Robb. As did anyone in the hall." 

_I saw it minutes ago, as I kissed her. I saw the name upon the very lips I hunger for everyday._

Ned looked predatory. And confused. But mostly, he was focused; grey eyes dark and shining as they roved across Jon.

"Tell me Jon. Where is your mark?"

"-What?"

"Your mark Jon, where is it?"

"-what, why?" Jon finally stopped retreating and stood his ground with his head up and shoulders strung as taught as a bow. He was the same height now as his Lord Father and he faced him head on, trying to hide his terror at the repeated questions.

"Because, Jon, a mark can only move when they are matched-"

"Yes, so why would Sansa's mark make you ask about mine, I am not her named."

"Tell me Jon. Where is your mark? And," Ned and Jon stood close, gazes burning into each other, backs straight and brows drawn, "is it truly white?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg. I just realised as I posted this that it's been 5 months or so since I last updated. I'm so sorry! Life, to be fair, has been insane. But still, I'm so sorry and I really hope you all enjoy this addition to this story. I really do love writing this and I'm so excited to see what everyone thinks!
> 
> Just a reminder, please comment and let me know what povs you would like to see, and I'll write from the most popular two next chapter! 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting and kudosing, it means so much to know you're all enjoying this story and I hope to keep delivering! xoxo


	5. Chapter 5

He had kissed her. Jon had kissed her. And he had run, frightened as a winter hare, wide eyes caressing her before he had sprinted out her door.

Jon had kissed her and Gods, how she had wanted it, ached for it, and how satisfying it was to finally feel his lips on hers.

Her fingers, already raised to her mouth in the aftershock of it all, traced over the words now there. She new they would move there, had felt them rise with the heat of her body as Jon's tongue had swept across her lips. It was a brief kiss, but each moment, each movement, was ingrained in her mind. Sansa felt as though she had been locked and that kiss had been the key. Because she felt free.

She didn't care anymore.

Hang the gods. Hang the world.

She wanted Jon, and Jon wanted her. Hang the name upon her lips and hang this Aemon Targaryen for lusting over her. Sansa felt only the glory of the sweep of soft lips that hungered for hers. 

She stood, sweeping around the room, she pushed on boots, twisted as she pulled on her cloak and mantle, and looked in her mirror.

Sansa stopped. Gods. Was that her? The reflection looking back at her was wild, hair flying loose around her shoulders to her back, unhindered and curling haphazardly in the night air. Flushed cheeks so pink she looked as though she had chased Arya through the Wolfswood for an hour, and her eyes. Sansa couldn't help but move closer, scared almost that something was wrong with her. They were black, so dilated only a touch of blue showed, and open so wide they seemed to swallow the world around her.

Just looking at herself, there was a clenching between her thighs, a stirring and melting feeling. She felt it in waves, and watched herself grow pinker as she clenched muscles she hadn't known to use. It felt good, and she thought of Jon and the kiss and ah! Suddenly she was almost dizzy from the feeling. 

She was dizzy, something was happening.

Her mark was growing, it was larger.

Sansa jolted, her knees giving out, catching herself upon her carved winter chest. Eyes dark and spinning, she dazedly watched in the mirror as the name Aemon Targaryen grew to cover her entire throat, wrapping like a choker of ink around her slender neck.

The last thing she remembered was another jolt to her belly, and a warmth that spread from her neck down to her fingers and toes.

And then there was nothing except heat.

 

* * *

 

 

Robb felt restless, there was something going on, and he didn't know what it was. It was strange to him, this feeling; he had never felt so uneasy in his own home, and he wished suddenly for everything to return to how it was a few weeks ago. Before Sansa got her mark and the world seemed to decline into some sort of confusing chaos.

He had been sitting in his solar, tapping his pen against a blank sheet of paper since the sunset, thinking over and over of everything that occurred the past few days. The dark surface of his desk and the once clean piece of paper were almost black with the splatters of ink that had been flung across them by his incessant action. Robb spread hands across his desk and pushed himself back in his chair. Taking a deep breath he attempted, as he had been doing for the past few hours of darkness, to reason out his family's troubles.

First, there was his Lord Father. He had decided on this strange visit North to the Wall suddenly and without the reasoning he would usually gladly share with his family. And then there was what he said about Jon, though perhaps that was just a mistake in the heat of the moment, and perhaps Robb had only noticed it because for one moment it sounded as if... as if Jon was not his Father's son. And Robb did not know what to make of such a thing, though the chances of such a ridiculous idea being true-

And here he was, back on the same track, round and round he had been going all evening.

For the truth was, Jon was his brother; a stain upon his Father's honour and parent's marriage he may be, but he would always be Robb's beloved brother. If he was not? 

It only meant one thing- lies. A lot of them. 

Robb drew his hands to his hair, realising only as he drew them through the dark red curls that they were covered in ink.

He hated being lied to.

Slaming a fist down, splattering pools of half dried blackness, Robb swore quietly to himself.

He would not be-

"SANSA! Someone come! Sansa!"

The black page slipped wetly onto the floor, and the door slammed into the wall behind before swinging slowly shut.

 

* * *

 

 

"Jon. Show me your mark-"

"What?! No! Father, you know what you're asking-"

"I do know, Jon, and I would have you show me now before I am forced to find it for myself!"

Nose to nose, Ned had never been so furious. Or so gods-be-forsaken terrified.

"It was white, Jon! You said it was white!"

"I- I never did! You said that and you told the keep, the family, everyone that I had the mark of a tragic! It was never me!"

Jon was heaving out breaths, air clouding before him like steam from the spring, forcing Ned back a step with the anger spewing from his son- no not his son, thank the gods he wasn't his son.

"I never asked for this! I never claimed her, I never even- I hadn't- I knew it couldn't be-"

And suddenly Jon was scrambling and Ned felt the air enter his lungs harsher, knives clawing down his throat as each breath climbed into his chest and exploded out again. He could only stare as Jon pulled at his surcoat, lifting it up, and then his belt, gone, on the floor of the forest and-

"Jon, wait Jon-"

"No! You have asked and I will show you what I have never lied about-" Tugging at his laces now and Ned couldn't move, "I always knew, that I was cursed, that, that it couldn't be..."

Jon was shaking now, fingers stumbling over each other as his voice held barely suppressed sobs. But still Ned was frozen, he felt as he had in his first battle, a spectator looking from above, removed from the chaos and destruction by a pane of glass until a smack on the back of the head had brought him back and he had entered the heat and fray himself.

Jon had fallen on his knees and the glass broke and Ned was before him, reaching for his hands, speaking softly to the boy who thought himself cursed.

"Jon, stop, Jon, you don't have to-"

But it was too late, and he had pulled apart his laces and dragged his trousers and smallclothes down on one hip and there was his mark. As deep in colour as Ned's own, and writhing upon Jon's skin, large and clear and so very, very real.

Sansa Stark.

Ned felt the world align into place, just as he thought it had earlier in the evening. But no. The world stopped spinning around him and everything was clear. 

He had done this. And he would fix this. But first-

"Jon, Jon! It's okay," his hand made it's way to his and covered the mark back up before landing on his shoulder, "it's okay-Jon, look at me, Jon!"

His eyes were glassy and black, swollen with an invisible fixation, and his skin-

It was too hot.

"Jon!" A shake to his shoulder, a blink of burning eyes, and Jon was on the ground, steam rising where his skin met the snow, and a wheeze of breath escaping as his eyes shut-

"Sansa..."

 

* * *

 

 

Someone was shouting, that was the first thing Catelyn thought as she was wrenched from sleep.

"Milady, Milady! It's the Lady Sansa! She's not well!"

Catelyn was much quicker to respond to that. She swung her legs to the side of her bed so quickly she nearly knocked over the serving maid who had come to alert her.

"Alys! Calm yourself, what's wrong with Sansa? Who is with her? Where is she?"

Catelyn strode over to her dressing gown while speaking, slipping on the warm fabric and heading towards the door as the young girl spoke.

"She's got a fever, milady, it's burning up, but she's not sweating, just her skin-" she took a deep breath, hurrying along behind Catelyn Lady Arya found her crumpled on the floor of her chambers and shouted out. Lord Robb, he must've heard her as well, I rushed in as he did and he had me come to get you and told Filla to go get the Maester."

"Has anyone told Lord Stark?"

"We, we don't know where he is, Milady, Lord Robb sent Braedan, he was guarding the quarters, to find him, but he hasn't returned yet- we thought you may know Milady..."

They had nearly reached Sansa's door and Catelyn just wanted to go inside and clutch her daughter to her chest, but first-

She spun round and bestowed a gentle but serious smile upon Alys, she had done well.

"Tell Braedon to search in the Godswood, Lord Stark is likely making his prayers, but he would well understand being interrupted in these events. And Alys, remember, this will stay within the Great Keep for now, and I would not hear of Sansa's state being spread further."

Alys nodded quickly, little to no surprise on her face, after all, the servants of Winterfell were loyal, and they knew that their beloved Lord and Lady preferred the privacy of Winterfell to remain intact. Stark issues were dealt with within Winterfell, and they were kept within Winterfell.

"Thank you, now find my husband."

Rushing inside the solar, she found Sansa now on her bed, dressing gown on but uncovered besides. Robb was pacing alongside her bed and Arya was stabbing at the fire in the hearth with unconcealed frustration. 

But Catelyn had eyes for Sansa, and she hurried across to the bed, vaguely hearing her children rushing up behind her, words flying out in a hastily put together rendition of events. She took it in in the back of her mind as she sat down next to her eldest daughter and raised a hand to her brow.

Alys had been right, it was hot, gods it was so hot she thought she might burn, but it was dry. No sweat, no laboured breaths, no shaking.

Just never ending heat. 

It was worse somehow, for she knew how to treat a fever, the Maester could treat her illness. They would know what to do.

But this, this was different, and Catelyn had no idea, no plan, no solution.

Arya's voice finally broke through the haze-

"- and Robb had to use a fur between his arms and her! Just to pick her up! I tried to get her to drink some water and it steamed when it met her skin! Steamed!" Her wild Stark girl's hands flew through the air as she exclaimed to Catelyn, gesticulating violently, almost hitting her brother over her shoulder.

He was nodding, a frown etched on his face, and _gods_ did it make him look like Ned. She held her other hand out to them both, drawing them to her as she kept a hand stroking across Sansa's hair. They were all so dear, so beautifully precious. Every time she pondered on her children, on these gorgeous young things part her and part Ned she almost felt drowned in the wave of love that surged through her. She remembered swimming in the Red Ford as a girl, when she'd hold her breath and dive under the water, hanging enveloped by the warm currents and gentle swaying of the water. It felt the same, the same blanket of love and warmth holding her, supporting her.

But in times like this, it sharpened. Like the peaks of the white tipped water when whipped by wind, cutting and bearing down on those in it's path, she'd protect her children, her family. She clutched her son and daughter to her breast and hummed. 

_Family. Duty. Honour._

 

* * *

 

 

He was still trying to desperately wake Jon when Braedon found them. 

"Lord Stark! The Lady Sansa has taken ill, and Lady Stark has requested you meet with her in Lady Sansa's chambers as soon- My Lord?"

Ned had stood abruptly as the guard's words and was cursing viciously at the snow at his feet.

"Uh, is, is Jon alright, Milord?" Ned looked up and saw Braedon staring confused at the steaming man on the snow, the one that Ned had just been trying to shake alert.

This was a choice- a moment, a decision. Ned wavered, he waited a half second; should he, shouldn't he.

"No Braedon, he is not well. I need you to help me. You take his legs and I'll his arms. But be careful, only touch him through his clothes-" The guard was looking more and more confused, "Milord? What-"

"We shall take him with us to Lady's Sansa's chambers and-" "Lady Sansa's?!" "- and you shall tell none of this."

Braedon's mouth snapped shut and he nodded quickly, moving to where Jon's legs lay in the snow, knee's twisted underneath him.

Ned strode to his shoulders as well and bent down, looking at Braedon and when ready said, "Now, on three lift: one, two, three-"

 

* * *

 

 

Arya was scared. She didn't understand what was going on but she knew it had something to do with Sansa feeling so sad all the time, and Arya keeping her secret, the one about her name. She knew it. She could feel it.

And Arya didn't know what to do. And she was pretty sure her Mother, who always had a plan, also had no idea what to do.

Maester Luwin walked in at that moment, hurrying as much as he could at his age, a scroll clutched in his hand.

"My Lady, I received this raven just as Filla came to me, I thought it prudent to open it as I gathered my medicines and- well, you should read it."

He handed the scroll to Arya's mother and then came round the other side to look upon her sister. Why he wasted precious time on that scroll when Sansa was-

"Oh Gods- no."

"Catelyn, what is it?"

And suddenly Father was at the door, pale as Mother now was, a red faced Jon strung between him and Braedon and-

"The King. He rides for Winterfell. He wishes to meet our daughter."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hola, so soulmates story for Jonsa week lel surprise. Wanted to try something different, also can't get over being unhappy with my last chapter of Under the Gods, so for now, this is my distraction. Hope you enjoy, not to worry, there's more to come.


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